


Preguntas

by Fluffifullness



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fluff, Hair, Hair Braiding, Long Hair, M/M, Native American Cecil, POCecil, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:03:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos may be the one whose hair comprises a major topic of conversation in Night Vale, but that won't stop him from admiring Cecil's longer and - in his perfectly scientific opinion - prettier hair. In a probably foreseeable turn of events, he even gets to play with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preguntas

Carlos has been in the habit of asking questions for as long as he can remember – because that is, after all, what a scientist _does_ – and that’s a good thing, assuming that you are a) also inclined to seek answers to those questions, and b) not a resident of Night Vale.

One of the greatest paradoxes of his daily existence lies in the latter stipulation. Before coming to Night Vale, he’d never had any reason to carry a pocket-sized notebook full of self-reminders: _look into this, why is that, ask Cecil about…_ He used to have far fewer questions – few enough that he could easily keep track of them without writing them down (using a sharpened piece of charcoal or a brush thick with blood-based paint, no less), and the answers back then generally were more forthcoming.

Of course, before coming to Night Vale, he’d never had any reason to worry that his inquiries would get him into trouble with vague yet menacing government agencies, near-omniscient police forces, or, er, worse – but that’s, well, the risks are worthwhile as long as they’re made in the name of science, in Carlos’ opinion.

The pages of his notebook (the ninth or tenth one, now) are littered with questions.

For example, are the Sheriff’s Secret Police called that because their job is to police secrets, or because they themselves _are_ secret, or is it technically (or at least theoretically) both, and why do the less expensive toothbrushes (sold like clockwork at the Ralph’s between six and seven on Tuesdays) _induce_ cavities instead of preventing them? What do the town’s children find so appealing about candies made to taste like the adhesive strip on the back of an envelope? Were passenger pigeons ever _really_ extinct, or did they all just make their way to Night Vale, and do people in Night Vale fear death paradoxically less becausethe risk of it is higher, or is it seriously because concern regarding one’s own mortality is only occasionally legal under the mercurial laws of the city council? Why don’t they try passing a law to keep the sun rising and setting at slightly more reasonable intervals?

More often than not, Cecil laughs at the questions Carlos poses. “I never would have thought to wonder about that, myself,” he says – he says _something_ like that, anyway, some slight variation – “but I guess that’s what makes you a scientist. I don’t doubt its importance.”

And then he launches into intricate explanations, sometimes vagaries that themselves lack comprehension, sometimes assertions so strange that Carlos can only laugh and trust that Cecil means every word – that it’s just another peculiarity of the town he’s chosen as his – his home, as funny and almost over-early as the word still seems at times.

Not all of what he asks about is important, Carlos admits – to himself, mostly. Some of it is just… curious. Interesting. But scientifically interesting – _always_ scientifically interesting.

“I have one more,” he volunteers, and – yes, that is hot blood rushing to his cheeks. Nothing next to the desert air, even settling as it is now into nighttime cool, but enough to warn him of just how far short the excuse of science falls in this one case. Cecil has already finished eating, is watching Carlos with a slight smile on his face. The smile turns into a delighted beam as he leans into Carlos’ dining room table – wood worn smooth, long having lost the shininess of slick polish. Carlos has all kinds of unverifiable theories about the history of that table and its previous owners.

“I’m happy to help in whatever way I can,” Cecil says eagerly.

“This one isn’t about science, really,” Carlos warns. “It’s more – just – well, personal. Is that,” he stammers, feeling like an idiot for asking, “is that alright?”

“Of course!” Cecil responds, predictably enough. Carlos eyes the smooth cascade of hair spilling over Cecil’s back, just let loose from its braid to do what it will – and what it will is apparently the formation of waves so subtle that at a glance, anyone might assume it was straight. Even after a full day and night of work, it shines dimly under the lights (perpetually shifting color, red to green to fever-bright yellow) of Carlos’ apartment.

“Um. Your hair…?”

“My hair?” Cecil repeats, curious now as his hand rises unconsciously to run slender, brown fingers through a bit that’s hanging in front of his left shoulder. Carlos nibbles uncertainly at his bottom lip, not quite managing to look away.

“Yeah,” he affirms, maybe a little too loudly. “I mean” – more quietly this time – “you’re always talking about mine – my hair, even though it’s, uh, it’s objectively not as attractive as yours, and –”

“I love your hair,” Cecil remarks. “It _is_ one of your most distinguishing characteristics, after all – incredible intelligence and kindness aside, and certainly not to mention your warm eyes and perfect teeth and beautiful, strong jaw. And your cooking and lovely voice – even, or rather, _especially_ when you’re babbling – and those fashion-forward lab coats and, oh, how I could go on,” he concludes, giving Carlos a look of adoration that verges on challenging.

“I know,” Carlos says, throat tight with something that is not quite bitten-back laughter, not quite embarrassment. “I – okay, I get it. Really, it’s just that I feel the same. About yours. It’s hard to imagine you, of all people, having a thing for my hair when you’re so…” He makes a broad gesture at Cecil and then shrugs.

He half expects Cecil to insist that, no, _you_ are ‘ _so…_ ’, but Cecil only sighs and smiles and says, “Would you like to touch it?”

“Can I?” Carlos says before he can think to stop himself. Backtracking, he stands and gathers up his and Cecil’s plates. His fingers twitch unsteadily against the smooth ceramic. “Sorry, that was – abrupt.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Cecil says, and his fingers are in his hair again. This time, Carlos knows that Cecil is watching his eyes, the extra color in his cheeks, the way he follows the motion with shy, darting glances, and he licks his lips to distract himself.

“I’ll go, uh, wash these,” he stammers. Cecil makes a move to follow him into the kitchen, but Carlos shakes his head. “It won’t take me long by myself. Go pick a movie?”

If Cecil is hurt by the slight, he doesn’t let on. “I’ll be waiting, then.”

Carlos takes his time with the dishes. He has at least two perfectly good reasons not to use the machine to get them done quickly. One is that he needs the solid warmth of soapy water and the rote repetition of scrub, rinse, and dry to soothe his nerves (probably unjustified, anyway, all things considered and in a place as consistently dangerous as Night Vale). The second is that, honestly, he just doesn’t have enough dishes left in his house to risk more of them disappearing into the gaping maw of his dishwasher. He’s lost at least three bowls and ten forks this week alone; if it weren’t for the fact that he’s been particularly busy at the lab lately, he would have called a plumber ages ago.

On second thought, he thinks, maybe a licensed, municipally-approved exorcist would be better suited to the job.

When he finally goes to join Cecil in the living room, he finds the radio announcer sprawled across the entire length of the couch – or as much of it as he is physically capable of covering, at least – his eyes closed and his breathing slow. Carlos can’t help but smile.

“Tired?” he asks, voice soft.

“Mmm… a bit,” Cecil mumbles, pulling himself drowsily upright. He crosses his legs and pats the cushion beside him. “You were taking too long – relatively speaking.”

“Sorry about that,” Carlos sighs, taking the seat offered to him. “Dishwasher’s not working right.”

“Has it been taking more than the allotted two plates a week?” Cecil wonders. “Again?”

“ _Lots_ more,” Carlos affirms wryly. “It was fine for a while after your – uh, repairs? It might just be me, actually – you know a lot more than I do about how dishwashers work around here.”

“Oh, hardly,” Cecil laughs. “Most of what I know comes from the introductory home economics and possessed appliances course I took back in high school.” He pauses. “Did you sleep through that one, Carlos? I didn’t think you were the type.”

“I – our curriculums must not have been quite in synch with each other,” Carlos says, almost entirely failing to sound as serious as he’d meant to.

Cecil frowns. “I can’t believe they’d exclude a subject as important as that.”

Carlos just shrugs.

“Oh, right,” Cecil says brightly. He straightens up a little and gives Carlos an enthusiastic once-over. “Didn’t you want to play with this?” To illustrate, he tugs at a stray bit of hair. “Of course, I hope you’ll return the favor, assuming that you’restill interested – you are, aren’t you?”

Carlos blinks. “Oh – _oh._ I – yes, honestly, I am, but –”

“‘But?’”

“Won’t I wind up distracting you?” He nods at the television. It’s tuned in to what appears to be a montage of fake flower bouquets, bound in colorful ribbons and falling in slow motion from unseen but certainly towering heights. Carlos wonders briefly where the program could have been filmed; most buildings in Night Vale aren’t nearly that tall.

(At least, not most of the visible ones.)

Cecil looks down at his feet. “Not if you’re what I want to focus on.”

The back of Carlos’ neck tingles and grows warm under the palm of his hand. “Oh,” he says. “I – okay. Thank you, and – uh, me too.” Christ, it’s like he’s reverting to his awkward teenage years all over again. Cecil grins at him, apparently not minding at all; he even says he enjoys it, sometimes, the dichotomy created by the fragile balance between the “most intelligent scientist in all of Night Vale, maybe in all of our little world” and an occasionally inarticulate, entirely normal guy.

“So?” Cecil prompts.

“So…?” Carlos hesitates again. Cecil is still tugging absently at his hair, one eyebrow raised at Carlos like he knows exactly what he’s doing. (Carlos is sure that he does.) “Er, would you rather sit on the floor? There are enough pillows and blankets here to make it comfortable.”

Cecil laughs and lets his hair fall back against his shoulder. “There’s no need to be so formal, is there?” His eyes widen slightly – “Or could it be that the act of playing with another’s hair is actually as intimate as playing with – well, I’m sure you know what I mean…? If so, I apologize for being so forward! I really should try to keep in mind the cultural differences between our town and where you lived before, Carlos. It wasn’t my intention to pressure you into anything –”

“No – oh, god, Cecil, no, it isn’t like – having _sex_ , even if it is – well – _intimate_ … It’s not exactly the kind of thing you’d do on a date, I don’t think – or maybe it is, depending on who’s involved. It can’t be too different from how things work here,” he finishes uncertainly. “I should point out that, being a scientist, I’m not an expert on human social interaction, but…”

Cecil’s shoulders lose most of their tension almost immediately, and he slumps back against Carlos. “Good. In that case, the only foreseeable problem is the extra page or two of forms due to be submitted to the city council – and it’s my turn to take care of those, anyway.”

Forms – of _course._ Carlos laughs – again, in spite of himself – as he helps Cecil create a sort of nest on the floor in front of the couch. He really does have plenty to work with; he’d been collecting extra blankets and pillows even before the start of this relationship, before he’d even so much as given a serious thought to what the two of them have now. Maybe it had been because of Cecil’s various on-air warnings about dangers that could be averted only through the use of a blanket with a particular texture or color. Maybe it had been because the simplicity of cotton, wool, polyester, spider-thread – anything, any fabric – had still seemed to represent a necessary brand of security in a world of should-be-fictional insanity.

Maybe it was just that he’d known – without _quite_ knowing – that he’d eventually need them for moments exactly like this one.

He finishes by draping a particularly soft blanket over Cecil’s shoulders. It covers his hair, too, obscuring it from view for as long as it takes Carlos to settle back into the couch and gently ( _gently_ , he cautions himself, _gently_ ) pull it free again.

Cecil tilts his head back to look Carlos in the eyes, and there is a smile just barely turning up the corners of his lips.

“Does it feel as good as it looks?” he wonders. Carlos doesn’t miss the way his boyfriend’s breath catches anxiously at the end of his sentence.

“It’s soft,” Carlos murmurs. “What do you use to wash it?”

( _Oh, maybe soap and water,_ he thinks sarcastically to himself.)

“I’m not sure,” Cecil admits, sounding relieved. “Most long-time residents receive a basket of unlabeled toiletries on the first and third Thursdays of every month. Expertly materialized to suit the specific requirements of every citizen’s hair type, of course. Have you started to receive yours, yet?”

Carlos bites his lip; that explains the odd collection of sweet-smelling creams and liquids. The results he managed to glean from his earlier examination of the contents of some of the bottles had been – well, _confusing._ He’s still working on classifying most of the substances as either sentient or inanimate, but the lines dividing the two have been blurred so much at this point that he isn’t even sure it’s _possible_ to arrive at any definitive conclusions.

His fingers slip once more through Cecil’s hair; a few easily-removable snags aside, it is smooth and soft and virtually untangled. Whatever that stuff is, it must – or it seems that it does, in fact, or at least in some cases – _work._

“Maybe _I_ should try using it,” Carlos muses.

“Yes, you should!” Cecil says happily. “Hair as perfect and beautiful as yours deserves proper care, after all.”

Carlos smiles in spite of himself. “Mind if I try braiding this?”

“Oh! You know how?” Cecil’s turned again to catch a glimpse of Carlos in his peripheral vision.

“Sure. My younger sister always used to ask me to braid hers for her. I’m probably a little out of practice, but I used to be able to do it all kinds of ways. Though, uh, I guess you’d probably just prefer a regular braid, right?”

“Anything,” Cecil says, sounding exultant. “But please, feel free to be adventurous. I’m very into trying new things, you know.”

Carlos brings both hands back up to Cecil’s hair. Starting at his scalp and working his way down, he very gently removes lingering snags and tangles. It takes him almost no time at all, but it’s still long enough, apparently, for Cecil to relax into the touch; he even sighs, a near-imperceptible little noise, long and slow.

“I don’t actually know what this one is called,” Carlos admits, more to himself than to Cecil. He feels his boyfriend jump a little at the sound of his voice.

“Th-that’s fine,” Cecil mumbles, almost guiltily. Carlos pauses to steal a sideways glance at him.

“Did it feel that good?”

“Yes, it – you’re very talented,” Cecil says. “To be honest, I _might_ have asked because I knew it would be nice. You know,” he murmurs, craning his neck back so that he is looking directly up at Carlos, “I can’t remember the last time anyone touched it – unless you count management’s most recent rampage through the station,” he adds in a cheery aside. “But _that_ was rather painful.”

Carlos imagines one of management’s tentacles snaked around Cecil’s long hair – dragging him by it – and he has to try very hard not to shudder visibly. “And – and it wasn’t damaged?”

“They’re always careful in their own way.”

Carlos lifts at another strand of hair. “It really doesn’t hurt at all now?”

“I’m fine, Carlos,” Cecil says, smiling the way he does when he’s particularly amused by one of Carlos’ many questions. “Weren’t you going to braid it?”

“Lean forward, then,” Carlos responds. Cecil does, though not without a barely-stifled laugh. “What?”

“Nothing!” Cecil singsongs.

Sighing, Carlos shakes his head and returns most of his attention to Cecil’s hair. He sections it into three even parts; he does so carefully, starting at Cecil’s scalp and moving his pointer finger slowly down to divide the strands. Cecil shivers in response to every downward motion; each gesture starts at the top of Cecil’s spine, beside Carlos’ steady hands, and runs down the length of him so quickly that he sighs elatedly.

He wonders what Cecil’s thinking, but he doesn’t dare speak up again to ask. In all honesty, he’d rather not bring Cecil back from his semi-conscious stupor; he likes those little noises he keeps making, likes the way he’s starting to go more and more limp under Carlos’ careful touch. He likes the things seemingly implied by the quiet – trust, definitely trust, and contentment and that rare feeling of fulfillment, that bone-deep conviction that neither of them has anywhere else they’d rather be right now.

He separates each of the three sections again, and Cecil makes a curious humming noise that Carlos immediately identifies as the most exact translation of a smile into sound.

“Cecil,” he says.

“That’s me,” Cecil answers, voice soft and distant.

“Cute,” Carlos says, not quite sarcastically enough to blunt the fact that he actually means it. “Look down for a minute. It’ll make this part easier.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.” Carlos manages to free one of his hands just long enough to give Cecil’s shoulder a little squeeze. “Let me know if your neck starts to hurt, okay?”

“Okay,” Cecil breathes. “Thank you.”

Carlos smiles. “Don’t mention it.”

The rhythm is a surprisingly easy one to settle back into. Limited as he is to just one rubber band, Carlos has to pay close attention to what he’s doing with his hands; if he lets go of any loose strands, he’ll have to retrace several steps’ worth of delicate braiding. That doesn’t stop him from noticing the texture, the scent, the slow breathing and the way Cecil gradually starts to lean back up and into Carlos’ touch, but it does keep the messing around to a minimum.

He hasn’t progressed very far at all when he has to pause and nudge Cecil’s back with his toe. “You still with me?”

“Mm…”

He laughs. “Should I stop?”

“Mn – no, no! Definitely not, wonderful Carlos! Despite appearances, I’m actually, uh, perfectly awake!”

“Right,” Carlos agrees, still grinning to himself. Cecil seems to know better than to turn and look at him with his hair in its current delicate position, but the groggy slur of his voice is obvious enough all by itself. “I still need you to keep your head down – just for another minute or two, if you can manage.”

“Sorry,” Cecil says, immediately ducking so far forward that his chin must be nearly flush with his chest. Carlos barely manages to protect the work he’s done so far, and he gasps, surprised, when he nearly drops it. Cecil turns slightly to look at him, wide-eyed. “Sorry,” he repeats, voice hushed, and Carlos can see how flustered he is. “Is it okay?”

“Yeah, you just surprised me. I’ve got it, so you can lean up a little bit. That position’ll get uncomfortable quickly, won’t it?”

Cecil clears his throat and raises his head. “I’m not at all uncomfortable,” he points out.

“I could tell,” Carlos teases. Cecil huffs in mock irritation and then goes quiet as Carlos resumes the braiding. If the occasional twitch or jump is anything to go by, Cecil is still just as close as he was to falling asleep. As Carlos works his way over and then down, the time between each sharp motion grows longer and longer, until Cecil is mostly still again – only the occasional sigh or quiet laugh when Carlos’ fingers brush the back of his neck. Carlos would let him stay that way and sleep if he weren’t also worried about what the hunched position might do to his spinal column.

So, he nudges him gently again and says, “You can sit normally now. I’m almost done.”

Cecil reaches up to trace the pattern of the braid where it starts to run on down his back.

“Wow,” he mumbles.

“You haven’t seen it yet,” Carlos says, and _maybe_ he lets some pride seep into his voice, just a little. “I’ll take some pictures for you, in just a… _there_ ,” and he lets the finished braid, bound at the end in the little black hair tie Cecil always carries with him, fall back onto the couch. Cecil turns with both his hands already wound around it, exploring the contours and noticing the careful smoothness.

Offhand, Carlos asks, “Have you ever thought of cutting it?”

The question seems to catch Cecil off guard. He fidgets for a moment before answering, “I don’t remember ever seriously considering it. And good thing, too, or I’d have been giving that” – and the way he pronounces the name is not so far from the way he talks about Steve Carlsberg– “ _Telly_ some entirely undeserved business.”

Carlos grins. “It _was_ a pretty bad cut, wasn’t it?”

“ _Ugh_.”

“Alright, alright,” Carlos laughs. “Come on, sit up here with me.”

Cecil’s look of abject disgust quickly melts into one of total delight. He scrambles clumsily to his feet and plops down beside Carlos. Given another second or two to stare admiringly at Carlos, he begins to fidget again, and his hand goes back to the long braid resting against his shoulder. Carlos reaches into the pocket of his lab coat and comes up with his phone.

“Stay like that,” he says when Cecil starts to pull his hand away; Cecil laughs, and the sound is beautiful and perfect and everything else Cecil likes to say about Carlos on his show. He keeps his hand where it was, rolling the braid between his fingers.

“You’re just like a professional photographer,” he says, and Carlos nearly drops the phone.

“N-no, I just like that, uh, the way you look,” he stammers, eyes falling to his lap. He can hear the rustling of fabric as Cecil shrugs.

“You’d be great at it, I think, but do you know what would suit you even better?”

“Oh, god,” Carlos mutters, giving Cecil a baleful glare. It probably falls far short of that, though, since he’s very nearly smiling despite himself. “Don’t.”

“A _model_ ,” Cecil sings, ignoring Carlos’ weak attempt at outrage. “Can you imagine? I won’t lie, I would likely experience _some_ jealousy, knowing that my perfect, beautiful Carlos was showing his very best physical attributes to an entire audience of readers and viewers, but I’d be willing to make that community-minded sacrifice if it meant capturing even a fraction of you – but not too much, of course your soul would require the greatest available protection –”

Carlos cocks an eyebrow. “Cecil.”

“– should also admit to doubting that you’d be able to handle the occasional malevolent spirits possessing all that fancy camera equipment.” Seeing Carlos’ expression inch toward concern as he glances down at the phone in his hand, Cecil adds, “Don’t worry, they almost never take over little things like that.”

With the fingers of one hand, Carlos rubs slow circles against his temples; his other hand tightens its grip on his phone.

“Ready?” he wonders. Cecil nods.

Carlos takes the picture. He has Cecil turn so that he can take a couple shots from the back, and he snaps several more from one or two other angles before snuggling up alongside his boyfriend and passing the phone to him.

“See? I’m no photographer,” he says self-consciously. A part of him blames the lighting in this apartment; if it would at least linger on a given color for a decent amount of time, the phone’s camera would be able to adjust properly.

“Oh, wow,” Cecil murmurs, thumbing his way through the pictures. He looks up when he’s finished. “Carlos, this is – it’s –”

“Neat?” Carlos guesses.

Cecil covers his face with one hand. “Yes, that,” he mutters, embarrassment making his voice pitch just a little higher than normal.

Carlos sighs, relieved. “I’m glad. Thanks for letting me do it.”

“The – the pleasure –”

“It was all mine.”

“No, I’m sure it was all mine, dear Carlos!”

They fall into silence, both sneaking occasional glances at the other and then looking away when their eyes meet. Still somewhat caught up in the nostalgia of acting like an inexperienced teenager, Carlos runs through at least seven possible topics of conversation before Cecil (of course) beats him to it.

“Would you mind – not tonight, if you don’t want to, but – _well_ ,” Cecil stammers, “I’d love to wear it to work like this. One day. Could you…?”

Carlos stares at him. For that to work, he’d probably have to be around in the morning…

“Are you asking me to stay the night?” With a jolt, he remembers that this is, in fact, _his_ apartment, and he adds a clumsy, “Or – the, uh, the other way around?”

“No – _yes_ ,” Cecil breathes. “Um. I’m not sure, exactly, but” – he turns to examine the edge of the sofa as his voice quiets to a whisper – “would that be acceptable?”

“‘Acceptable,’” Carlos repeats, cheeks burning. “Well, uh, my clothes might be a little big on you, but if you – you know, need something to wear…”

Cecil’s entire face lights up as he turns to look at Carlos. “Really? Tonight?”

“If you want to,” Carlos echoes Cecil’s earlier words. “It’s late, and you’ve been falling asleep on and off for a while, so if you don’t think it’s too soon…”

“I don’t!” Cecil cries, leaning close to Carlos and grinning wide. “Hug?”

Carlos nods, wraps his arms around Cecil, and pulls him close. “You look good,” he murmurs into the curve of his boyfriend’s shoulder – tensed and then relaxed. Cecil makes a happy noise and hugs him back.

“Carlos,” he croons, adding extra vowels to the name. “Thank you. Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> I remember reading a comment somewhere about how Carlos seems to be the only one who actively initiates change/progress in his and Cecil's relationship. Many of the big steps that they've taken in the podcast thus far were things that both of them wanted, but that Carlos suggested first. Mostly I wrote this fic because I felt like writing some fluff, but I was also mulling that over as I was writing.
> 
> You could consider this a loosely-developed headcanon in which Cecil actually initiates plenty of little things behind-the-scenes.


End file.
